


Singed and Scarred

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Timelines, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A universe where Rocinante is still alive, though not entirely for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thirty-Seven

It was the middle of a hot, wet night and Rocinante stared tirelessly at his reflection, the light emphasizing the development of wrinkles settling just underneath the eyes. He rested his index finer over one, pressing against soft skin drenched in a combination of sweat and luxurious oils. He dragged it down, testing the dwindling elasticity, watching his lightly tanned skin go white for a moment before shifting back into the place, noticing right away the way the small wrinkles reformed, bringing itself back to his attention. 

This was thirty-seven.

This was hitting that point where running around and acting like a fool was using up more energy than before, and left him feeling more winded than he cared to admit. It was the stress of living waist deep in the gambling industry, dealing with loud crowds, drunkards, and losses. Trying to keep everyone happy as they wasted their hardworking money on cheap thrills. It was supposedly retired from the life of a marine, discharged after the origins of his past surfaced, and yet spending a majority of his time trying to keep peace between a kingdom, its subjects, and the pirate that exploited its economy. 

Rocinante leaned on the porcelain sink, letting his gaze drop to the rest of his face, past his neck, and down to his collarbone. He stared at worn out scars, no longer looking as intense as they once did, not with the whiteness now starting to blend with the surrounding skin. Some marks still protruded outward, but it all looked so smooth now, even the parts that shared space with active muscle. This was no doubt a result of being pampered; bathed in fine delicacies made to sooth old wounds, perhaps even slow the aging process.

Outside of the washroom he heard the sound of sheets being tossed, kicked off a body in favor of reaping the comforts of the conditioned air. He almost though to lean back and check to see if Crocodile might be stirring in his sleep, but remembered he only left the door slightly ajar. He didn’t want any of the light to pour out, didn’t want the warm air of the washroom to spoil his rest, in case Crocodile was sleeping soundly. 

A few seconds past listening to Crocodile shift, settle, and go silent. Rocinante raised his head up yet again and went back to the wrinkles, then finally settled his focus on the eyes.

This body was thirty-seven, but the eyes looked as though they were near Crocodile’s age, if not a few years more. He was hot and restless, but his eyes were tired and wanted to shut tight and enjoy just a few hours of peace before dealing with several hours of sun, noises, people and pirates.

Perhaps his wrinkles were really a result of the occasional restless night where memories from over ten years ago still haunted him. They were enough to reappear in his subconscious and torment him until he awakened, and remained awake until the sun rose across the desert. It could be shame that he carried when he left the marines, a combined result of the scrutiny he received after everyone learned of his familial ties, as well as the discovery of the White City and government funded cover-ups. And there was also the possibility of it being a result of being chased, disappointed and toyed with by pirates. If not Crocodile, then by raising and not being able to stop Law from going out and adopting black sails of his own. Yes, there was certainly some shame to be had in knowing that he was still consorting with pirates, this time by his own choosing.

Rocinante let go of the sink and took a step back, only to nearly slip on his heel and stumble forward again. His mouth shut, Rocinante snapped his head to the opened door, anxious to see if he might have awoken Crocodile. He heard nothing, not even light breathing. He shuffled back up, avoiding his reflection as he made his way to the door, flicking off the light before leaving the washroom. Clumsiness this late at night was a sign that he’d been thinking for too long, and was now at risk of injuring himself and causing a stir throughout the casino.

He was light on his steps as he approached the large bed, making out Crocodile’s form resting near the edge. At first he was glad to see that Crocodile was silent, at least he didn’t wake him up, not after a long day of him keeping pirates away from the country, but the lack of soft rhythmic breathing drew his attention, and when he knelt down he saw Crocodile staring back at him.

Rocinante fidgeted and nearly came close to stumbling, forward or back, it didn’t matter, either way he would’ve made a scene of himself.

“How long?” he asked.

Crocodile’s arm rolled under the pillow. “You’re not very subtle,” he answered. He turned on his back, sighing. “And once I caught sight of the light, there was no going back.”

“Sorry,” Rocinante muttered.

Crocodile blinked. “Close the door next time.”

Rocinante felt the surrounding cool air rest on his bare shoulder, his chest. He shivered as he stood up, ready to return to the sheets, Crocodile’s hand broke through the blankets and grabbed his wrist. He stared at the greedy hand clinging to him, felt the rings pressing against his skin, almost uncomfortable.

“What?” he asked.

“Down,” Crocodile ordered. There were no light sources infiltrating the room, but Rocinante could see a slight glimmer in Crocodile’s tired stare. It wasn’t amusement, or anger, and it didn’t look like concern either. Crocodile was just staring.

Several years being dragged deeper into the desert, falling deep into dangerous sands, staring it right in the face, and Rocinante still wasn’t entirely sure what Crocodile found so interesting about him.

He knelt down, again, and Crocodile continued to pull him closer, closing a dwindling space between their faces.

Crocodile’s lips brushed against his. “You look tired.” 

Rocinante smiled against Crocodile’s lips, thankful that he wasn’t overly upset with him for staying up for so long. “I don’t feel too bad right now,” he replied. He tried to pull away, but Crocodile held him down, forbidding him from moving too far. Rocinante remained just inches above him, staring at his confused expression reflected off of Crocodile’s tired gaze.

“Whatever it was you were thinking about,” he said while keeping his eyes on Rocinante, “stop it.” His grip on Rocinante’s wrist eased. “You look exhausted.”

He let go of Rocinante and pulled his hand back into the sheets. Rocinante watched Crocodile moved around, pulling and taking bed sheets with him, until he was comfortable enough to go back resting on his side. Rocinante walked around the bed; careful when he crawled on despite knowing Crocodile couldn’t be asleep yet. He kept an eye on Crocodile’s back as he pulled his lesser share of the sheets, and tried to resituate himself in a comfortable enough position. He ended up on his back, facing the ceiling, waiting and counting the minutes it took for Crocodile’s breathing to sound less forced.

He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t feel tired.

But Crocodile said he looked exhausted. He might’ve meant well (though it was hard to tell with the man), but his words only left Rocinante more sure that something was still off.

He stared up at the distant ceiling, remembering a time where he admired the curvature, the marble aligning the walls to keep everything cool, and the sounds of water and something swimming in the distance. There were nightmares almost every night, his subconscious clinging to those final moments before Tsuru and her crew landed, her presences just enough to alarm his brother and stop him from sending out a barrage of bullets. He lived, but his mind wandered and remained in the dark, clinging to the article titles of his brother’s sentence, imprisonment, and everything else that left him a near insomniac. But when he slept he slept, tangled under a heavy and tanned body that left him feeling refreshed in the morning.

The nightmares were a rare occasion now, and Rocinante was several years past the fact that he was still alive, and would never see his brother again. But obtaining restfulness could still prove to be a challenge. Strange as it might have been, it was that night of him clinging to life, under the impression that Law was free and would grow up and accomplish so many things, and away from his brother’s influence, that supplied him with the most fulfilling dream.

“You’re still thinking.”

“Sorry,” Rocinante muttered while turning his head to stare at Crocodile’s back.

He heard a sigh. “You keep apologizing,” Crocodile replied. He turned his head just slightly, and Rocinante caught a small glimpse of his face. “Go to sleep.”

“I know, I know.” Rocinante went back to staring up at the ceiling. “ _I know_.”

He waited a few seconds before turning on his side, testing the limits of Crocodile’s affection by crawling up to him. Rocinante rested a hand on his shoulder and noticed that Crocodile didn’t flinch or say anything that suggested he minded the affection. Well, he guessed Crocodile didn’t care as long as he fell asleep. Rocinante was fine either way. He nudged closer to him, rested his chest against Crocodile’s back, and let his arm wrap under his.

A few more seconds went by, then minutes. Rocinante blinked, noticed the how eerily quite it was and moved his hand up Crocodile’s chest, stopping at his neck. He whispered into his ear, “you‘re still awake?” Crocodile sighed. Rocinante continued to move his hand up, to Crocodile’s face, moving a few strands of hair out of the way. “You can’t sleep?”

“Your annoying behavior is contagious,” Crocodile answered.

Rocinante stopped himself from apologizing. Instead, he let his finger rest on top of the worn scar that aligned Crocodile’s face. Like his own, it was smoother and didn’t protrude inwards as much as he remembered.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked while running his finger across the scar.

Even with Crocodile providing some distraction, Rocinante was thinking about his reflection, in the mirror and in Crocodile’s eyes, his scars, their scars, and how they both felt tired.

He heard a groan escape Crocodile’s lip. “ _Everything,_ dammit.”

Thirty-seven was just another number. This is what it’s like to still be alive.


	2. The Week After

Senor Pink had been on the line for nearly an hour now, and since then his yelling dwindled to a low whisper. He stopped referring to his girlfriend with pet names, and was now repeating her name over and over, shaking his head and gently rubbing the shell of the den den mushi as though it were her head.

The hotel room was mostly silent, save for a few soft whines coming from Pica and Lao G. Both were waiting for Baby 5 to hand them another dose of painkillers. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Odds were she was off with Buffalo on the streets, sneaking between alleyways, carts and crowds in order to reach a shady enough doctor who didn’t mind selling the kids some off-prescription brand, at three times the price.

Jora sat on a chair and was staring out the window, not paying any mind to Senor Pinks frantic rocking on the edge of Pica’s bed, or the way Machvise rubbed her shoulders, trying to sooth the aches of a few broken ribs and leg with tender, loving contact. He was sporting several visible bruises and gashes: his drooping left arm was a grotesque combination of yellow, purple and blue, his right leg shaking and covered in bandages. Dellinger began whimpering, and after a few members turned their heavy heads to one another, all recognizing that Jora lacked the mental strength to indulge the toddler, a silent decision was made, resulting in Gladius limping over (he refused to rely on the crutch. He was so sure of himself he would get over this debacle and that his leg would be back to normal if he just had faith) and taking the small child in his arms.

In the tiny, claustrophobic bathroom, Vergo stared tiredly at his reflection. The light inside was dim, giving the off-white colored walls a sickly yellow appearance. Vergo remembered helping Diamante into the tiny room, the nervous grin he made once the light started flickering, remarking how it wasn’t too different from the cell he and the other officers had been crammed into during their stay at Impel Down. Vergo remembered. He stared at Diamante, pupils shifting in size, the ends of his open mouth twitching with cruel memories of torture, until his nose flared and he closed his eyes, exhale staggering before breaking into a sob. Vergo was strong, but hearing such pathetic sounds from his fellow officer left him sick to his stomach, legs turning shaking like jelly.

He brought thumb and index finger to his face, pressing them just underneath the eyes and covering the bluish stained bags that had accumulated this past week. Last month he was a member of the marines, an assumed loyal officer to the World Government. He was going to move up the ranks, prove himself to those fools who were so trusting and gullible to allow him in, until he reached a safe enough position with just the right amount of power. He was going to play the ultimate acting role. He was going to prove his worth to the family.

Vergo dragged both finger and thumb down, watching the skin underneath his eyes go pale before returning to their bluish hue, bags refilling. Today he woke up and saw his image on a newly made wanted poster, along with several other members of the family.

Growing tired of his reflection, Vergo removed his hand, and grabbed his sunglasses to cover his bloodshot eyes. He took the small bottle of lotion sitting on the sink and left the bathroom.

Despite limited access to reliable funds, Doflamingo had his own room. Vergo used what little he had to ensure that his king would be given the same amount of privacy he was used to. It was tiny room consisting of a bed, table and accompanying chairs. When Vergo entered the small room he was welcomed with dank air that was somehow lacking in heat.

He had to be careful opening the door, and was immobile, save his arm, when closing it. Too much noise, especially sudden sounds, had to be avoided.

“Joker,” Vergo stated. His voice was lower, and he enunciated the title slower than what he was still used to. “I’m coming in, I hope you don’t mind…”

There was no reply, but Vergo was growing accustomed to that. He grabbed one of the chairs and placed it by the bed before sitting down. Without glancing at the curled form hiding in the sheets Vergo raised the bottle up, reexamining the long list of ingredients that made up the lotion, wondering if the difficult names would really aid in the healing.

Those bastards at Impel Down really went all out. The moment they discovered Doflamingo was of noble descent they subjected him to all the available tortures they could squeeze during his stay. Vergo was aware of some of the cruel acts inflected on Trebol and the others, but Doflamingo’s was a mystery. He’ been separated, dragged off with seastone shackles and binds, his location and status unknown until all four were reunited for their execution.

“Jora has yet to spot any marines,” Vergo began, popping open the top before squeezing a liberal amount into his hand. “Obviously she’s still on the lookout, but it’s promising news.”

Vergo looked at the messy sheets, at the bit of uncovered forehead, scrapped and scabbed, and the messy, oily hair that was splayed out. The air was musty and damp, and the few fingers poking out from the bedcovers were shaking. The nails were messy, caked with dirt, skin and blood, and had been since Doflamingo was rescued.

“And Lao G has come to,” Vergo added, leaning forward, hoping what little natural light there was would notify Doflamingo of his encroaching presence with a shadow. “He fades in an out, but we got him talking when he’s conscious.”

Doflamingo moved underneath the sheets. The action was so slight that nobody but Vergo would have made such deal of it. He hovered over the bed, sunglasses slipping from his face, threatening to fall and bounce off the bed and to the floor, but it hardly mattered. The entirety of his captain’s hand was now sticking out, four fingers, thumb, and palm; still swollen and shaky, nail bed blemished with black, reaching out to the sound of Vergo’s voice.

“Baby 5 and Buffalo are out right now…” Vergo muttered. He took the hand, letting his own slide under Doflamingo’s. His grip was delicate and hesitant, but Doflamingo still flinched and shivered against his touch. “Joker, I’m both so pleased and proud by how committed they are to the family, they’ve been nothing but supportive since all of this has happened.”

“Corazon.”

Vergo was about to apply the lotion to the hand when his old title was announced. It sounded so muffled under all those sheets and blankets. Vergo could hear the heat, the stuffiness in Doflamingo’s voice from being so trapped under all that weight.

“Sir?” he answered, voice a little shaken. It had been a long week of silence from his captain, and to hear that he was back in his old seat was both rewarding and worrisome.

“My back burns…”

“Would you like to me to check your stitches?” Vergo asked, this time appropriating a stiller performance. There wasn’t enough lotion to sooth so much space, nor enough bandages to cover a possibly infected wound, or a doctor who would keep his mouth shut in case things were getting worse, and of course things would only get worse.

“Yes.”

 _Doflamingo_. He was taken from his family and dragged further into hell. He was forced to endure the same torture he had dealt with as a child. Worse, he underwent torture knowing that it would only end once he was close to death, but not quite dead. No, the guards at Impel Down knew he was to remain alive at all costs. Doflamingo’s life would be given to the World Nobles. They would have the privilege of killing him. And for an entire week Doflamingo survived under these conditions, aware that the only thing that would bring an end to his constant suffering would be the humiliating and traumatic experience of his life being handed over to the Celestial scum that had chased him out so many years ago.

All because Rocinante had lied.

“I’ll need to uncover you,” Vergo said, giving his captain’s hand a light squeeze.

He remained calm. Vergo would always remain calm. He’d make the most of what few antibiotics he still had on him, what little change was in his pockets, and he’d find a way to bring Doflamingo from out of those sheets, _from the ashes_ , and he’d nurse him back to health, clean him up and stand proud, and Vergo would be there every single step of the way, right behind him, or by his side. Whatever Doflamingo wanted.

“Corazon?”

“Yes?”

“Is the door locked?”

Dilated pupils stared up at Vergo, hollow and patient. Vergo didn’t know the exact details of the torture inflected on his king, but the marks they left behind were so ghastly that he had to think twice about it before looking over to check the door.

Doflamingo was waiting patiently on an answer, and Vergo was quickly growing to despise his airheaded ways.

“I think so,” he answered.

Outside the room Baby 5 and Buffalo ran up the hall, tears rolling down their faces after being told that the price for the painkillers had gone up since their last visit. The family accepted what little was brought to the table, and Baby 5 was reminded by Lao G, for the hundredth time this week, of how grateful he was to have her. His voice rasped and wheezed, Dellinger wailed and begged to be held by gentler hands, and Trebol and Pica rolled in the their beds, wanting nothing more than to be given a moments peace. Jora stared out the window, breath labored upon hearing the toddler’s cry, and Machvise could only suggest that she please consider giving herself some much needed rest. Diamante shivered, expecting the worse to happen at any moment, Gladius gave in and broke into a fit when he couldn’t calm Dellinger down, and Senor Pink covered his face, sure that he misheard his girlfriend's words.

“Aw babe, don’t say such things,” Senor Pink choked. “You don’t wanna be a pirate…trust me. Shit ain’t as romantic as you think it is.”


	3. Songs of Sand

Today was a good day for sandstorms.

Once Crocodile finished his usual act of distracting and kicking out unwanted pirates from the country, earning praise and respect from the peasants that adored him, he made his way into the desert, deciding to unleash some of his might on the land. The country was facing six months of no rain, but the citizens still had their hopes up and were determined to see this drought to the end, under the assumption that things would get better once the weather grew cooler. Crocodile knew better, but decided to test the people's patience anyways.

With a wave of his hand he summoned up the first of many dangerous tornados. He watched it spiral, twist and dance through the massive sand hills, shifting and growing in size, headed towards an unlucky city. Crocodile dissolved his legs and carried himself through the winds, listening to the dangerous storm pick up speed, the unrestrained roar of gravel smacking and crashing against anything that it licked, eradicating young palms and massive stone.

Satisfied with the growth of the first, Crocodile flew across the desert, letting the gentle breeze guide him and determine the next location of his attack. As before, he stopped and summoned up another storm, laughing as it grew in his hand and feeling its energy explode from his palm as it escaped into the desert, stretching and taking up most of his view. Breezes ceased and turned into raging winds gusting back in forth, going around in near deafening spirals that brought Crocodile to snicker as he changed his shape and let lesser gusts carry him off.

He repeated the action once more, restraining himself from overdoing the torment this early in the game. He wanted to break the fools over time, recording their disappointment and loss of trust towards the royal family. Too many sandstorms in one day might give the impression that the gods were no longer on their side.

He continued onward through the desert, taking rest in a town that was fortunate enough to not be in danger's way. He spent a few hours under the shade, drinking and having a smoke while listening to frightening gossip shared between citizens, and the den den mushi designed to sound the alarm whenever the risk of sandstorms arose. It was a glorious hour of him nursing his spiced rum, the occasional alarm sounding almost like music to his ears.

When the sun began to set and he was sure the storms on this side of the continent had passed, he shifted back to sand and returned to Rainbase; eager to rest and lavish in all the spoils he'd stolen from this country.

XXX

"You keep humming that," Crocodile muttered. He lifted his heavy eyelids. Fingers gently rubbed against the side of his head provided a soothing massage and made it difficult for him to concentrate. He managed a few blinks before raising his hand up, not stopping the scarred hands from applying mild pressure, but catching the man's attention.

He felt Rocinante lower his head, just enough for him to detect comforting body heat gathering at the side of his face. "Hmm?" he heard the man mutter in his ear.

"Ever since I got back," Crocodile repeated, turning and staring at a recently cleaned face, naked without the usual layer of makeup to hide behind. "Are the alarms bothering you?"

Despite the storms heading in the opposite direction of Rainbase, the royal guards issued a countrywide emergency. Every half hour a den den mushi broadcasted the news of shifting winds, of the storms that roared and smothered all life that lay in their paths. Once in a while alarms went off. It was standard procedure, and though the sounds of constant partying from travelers and local gamblers was able to cover some of the ringing, the warnings could still be heard inside of the casino, all the way down to the lower levels where he and Rocinante rested.

Underneath several floors, surrounding by water and thick stone, the alarm sounded more like a distant murmur, almost soothing to the pirate's ears.

"Oh, well," Rocinante answered, running one of his hands through his messy hair. "I'm not too bothered by them, no."

Crocodile usually found Rocinante's inability to express any of his concerns a pleasant trait. If it meant him getting away with less than favorable deeds then there was little for Crocodile to worry about. But then there were days like this, when it was just the two of them. It was fun to watch Rocinante submit and pander to his desires, but now Crocodile craved for an equal to share his time with. Crocodile was already riding a personal high and he wanted Rocinante to partake in some of it, as much as he could offer without giving himself away.

"Do they bother you or not?" he asked sharply, lifting himself off from Rocinante and resituating himself on the lounge chair. He crossed his leg on top of the other while staring at the younger man, waiting to see of Rocinante would falter on his previous answer and provide something more honest.

It was a strange desire. Crocodile hardly ever announced any variant of the truth around the lesser Donquixote, but for some reason whenever he wanted honesty from Rocinante, anything resembling his usual compliant behavior left him frustrated.

"No, no," Rocinante answered, waving both hands at Crocodile. "No, I can hardly hear them all the way down here!"

The persistent gesturing drew Crocodile to conclude that Rocinante wasn't trying to indulge him in order to remain on his good side.

"It's just…" Rocinante moved closer to Crocodile, and was careful not to approach too quickly.

At first Crocodile was bothered by the amount of caution Rocinante used, but then supposed Rocinante approaching him in general was better than him waiting for permission like he used to, back in the day. "You're usually quiet after a long day," he added, "seeing you smile again was a nice surprise."

He hadn't thought about it, but Rocinante was right about the increasing silence between the two of them. Initiating the first steps of Project Utopia meant constantly keeping an eye on the distribution of the dance powder, the current location and any progress of his subordinates, as well as maintaining a good name with the locals and royal family. While Rocinante rarely complained, Crocodile knew moments where the two of them were alone and savoring each other's company had transitioned into rarer occasions.

He hardly had the time to produce a genuine smile, not with all the acting that took place throughout the day.

The country was in a state of panic, and alarms going off every hour to remind the citizens that sandstorms were brewing, but all Rocinante cared to do was hum and relish in the fact that he was smiling again. It was a disturbing thought, but one Crocodile found rather pleasing, enough to grin and coax Rocinante closer to him.

He leaned against Rocinante and let him go back to massaging him. He stared out, first at the walls, and then at the table and his hook lying on top of it. For the first few minutes it was just the sounds of Rocinante's hands sliding through his hair, getting reacquainted before attempting to situate to his shoulder. There were the soft ripples of the bananadiles swimming all around, reassuring Crocodile to further unwind, closing his eyes and choosing to not let the occasional sting of his shoulder get to him. Finally, there was the humming, soft a first and barely enough to cover the sounds of everything else, but then undergoing a slight crescendo and filling Crocodile mind with the simple and repetitive tune.

"Not bad," he muttered.

"You like it?" he heard Rocinante ask. "It's something I picked up back when I was in the–"

"I meant your voice," Crocodile interrupted before Rocinante could finish. Because of his position he couldn't immediately observe Rocinante's reaction, but he managed to see him turn away and guessed he wasn't prepared for the compliment. Crocodile held in a smirk as he reached up and enticed Rocinante to look down at him. "The song itself doesn't sound half bad," he added once he caught sight of Rocinante's flustered expression.

He watched Rocinante crack a nervous smile. "It's pretty simple," he said as he went back to pulling loose strands aside with a few fingers. "You can join in if you want."

Crocodile shrugged at the suggestion. "Singing isn't my thing."

"Aww, don't be like that. You were doing so good," Rocinante commented. "And I'm not singing, I'm humming."

Crocodile stared up at Rocinante and shrugged again. "All the same really," he remarked.

"I bet you have a nice singing voice though."

Crocodile felt Rocinante's fingers all over his face. The massage was over, and now Rocinante was trying to get him to do something he wasn't in the mood for. How daring of him, and Crocodile might have considered playing along were it not for the topic "You can guess all you want. It's not going to happen," he said as he brought his hand up to swat the younger man's hands away.

"Are you afraid of someone catching you in the act?" Rocinante teased, though it was quickly turning into annoying pestering for him. "Like maybe Ro-"

"Miss All-Sunday," Crocodile corrected. He was about to turn his head and stare Rocinante down. He disliked it when Robin wasn't referred to her codename, and now Rocinante's behavior was starting to irritate him.

But he felt large hands slip over his shoulder, fingers pressed deep into his muscles, sending a mild, but dull wave of pain. Crocodile winced as his tense muscles began to ache and relax back into place, and listened to the way Rocinante chuckled as he slipped an arm down, wrapping itself around his frame. He lifted his head up and saw a wide smirk aimed at him.

"Nobody has to hear it," Rocinante said.

" _Excuse me_?"

It was then Crocodile realized just how quiet the room was. At some point Rocinante created a small field to negate all sound. There were no murmurs of the alarms going off to warn everyone of the possible sandstorm, nor was there the soft sounds of water or bananadiles wafting their way through it.

"Where did _this_ come from?" Crocodile asked, lifting his arm just enough to gesture at the hands rubbing and molesting him.

"From you," Rocinante quickly answered.

Crocodile stared at his impossibly wide smile. "I have a hard time believing that," he commented. A part of him wanted to see it dwindle and disappear with a harsh comment, but there was a growing desire to feed into it, watch it defy reality and grow, to sink and let Rocinante take over with whatever he had planned.

"You came back grinning," Rocinante continued as he felt his way up Crocodile's shirt. "You made such a scene." Had he? Crocodile couldn't remember. Things had been so hectic in the casino. He barely recalled nervous yelling, people calling out for family members, and Robin asking him to not be so obvious that he was enjoying it. "I liked it," he heard Rocinante say. "I still do."

With fingers working their way to unbutton his shirt, and Rocinante smiling down at him, Crocodile finally wondered what might've went through the Rocinante's mind as he learned about the storms, the alarms, and the chaos that ensued throughout the day. Somewhere underneath the loose fitting robes and fancy jewelry was a marine, or at least the remains of one. "Enough to not care about the storms or the alarms?" he asked before sharply inhaling.

Rocinante's large, cool hand rubbed against his skin. "Distract me with something else," he said to Crocodile, and then went back to lightly humming the same tune as before.

Despite his breathing growing heavier, under the influence of all too delicate touches, Crocodile paid close attention to the song Rocinante hummed out. At what point did Rocinante cease to care about the problems of the common man, and instead place his focus on pleasing him, on trying to get into his pants, and on hearing him sing?

This was what he wanted right? Crocodile complained about passive behavior when he desired the opposite, and now Rocinante was providing a more aggressive side to him. He was inviting him to partake in his own happiness, just as Crocodile wished from him moments ago.

"The field better stay up," he warned.

Rocinante stopped humming, letting out his response in the form a soft chuckle.

Above the casino the winds were dying down, but the memory of the harsh storms still haunted everyone's mind. Raging clouds twisting, howling and engulfing continued to persist in the form of rumors and nightmares, filling the night with the whispers and prayers for a better tomorrow.

Several feel below, underneath layers of concrete and water, brewed another storm. Much like the previous one before it started off small. It lingered on a few notes longer than intended, but with some encouragement grew stronger, louder, until it reached a point where it no longer cared whether or not there was a field around to contain it; that powerful and boastful energy.


	4. Something

Sometimes Crocodile would stare at Rocinante, or simply think about him, and he'd feel something like a stir. Something like it. Crocodile was never in a rush, but there would arrive that rare occasion where he wanted to have Rocinante around, even rarer to have him underneath or above him, but always under his influence.

"Enough work."

Crocodile lifted his head up from a file, closed and flipped it over, his hand covering it in an attempt to hide its contents from Rocinante.

"Excuse me?" he asked, watching Rocinante walk up with a confident stride. Crocodile noticed the smile on Rocinante's face, the glimmer in his eyes, the slightly parted lips thirsting for attention.

He stopped just a few feet from the desk. "You've been trapped inside all day. Let me take you out, or something?"

It sounded polite, but Crocodile read through the kind offer, his eyes now on the slight way Rocinante swayed in place.

"Something?" he said aloud, his hand dragging the file across the table, hoping to keep it out of Rocinante's sight. He blinked, and his stare settled on large shaking hands, eager to reach out and grab, feel and rip away at layers. " _Something_ ," he repeated, this time with better understanding. "As in, something you want to _do_?"

He expected Rocinante to stumble back, to trip over his own step, the carpet or nothing at all, and fall back embarrassed by the accusation. Those were the days. Rocinante would drop and Crocodile would return to work.

But Rocinante was a damn Donquixote, and whatever hesitations he once had were long gone now. Instead of slipping, Rocinante chuckled, unabashed by his presumption.

"Don't make it sound bad," he explained, taking another step. "I really want to spend time with –" His step was a little too big, and Crocodile winced when he saw Rocinante stagger forward, close to tripping, but saved himself last second. He grabbed the desk, stopping himself from falling any further.

Crocodile opened a drawer and slipped the file in before standing up and looking over to witness Rocinante recovering.

Rocinante cracked a grin. "You," he said. "I wanna spend time with you… " He chuckled, reached out and carefully placed a hand on Crocodile's shoulder, hesitant like he was afraid that his touch might cause another accident. "These days you're always inside…"

Crocodile sighed, but he felt Rocinante's fingers curl over his shoulder and stopped himself from scolding the younger man for not immediately getting his way.

Doflamingo had been an annoyance that didn't know the meaning of the word 'no.' Rocinante carried a habit of testing Crocodile's patience, but he never meant any harm. He didn't whine, fight or force Crocodile into a corner until he got what he wanted. Rocinante certainly understood the thrill of a challenge, and that euphoric rush that was supplied with a victory. He had his moments, but he didn't obsess like Doflamingo.

Even now. Rocinante was advancing, but he was still awaiting permission to make bolder, riskier moves. Rocinante could be all over him, push his weight and heat against Crocodile, have his arms clinging and pulling him down, wrinkling clothes and smearing makeup from intrusive kisses.

Rocinante was waiting. He was serious.

Crocodile blinked, feeling a warm tickle rise up his neck. "And you're quite sure that's _all_ you want?" he asked, staring into a mass of black feathers. He waited for Rocinante to make the final move, to grab him, for him to go blind with those blasted feathers in his view.

"As long as it'll tear you away from the desk," Rocinante replied, placing a kiss on Crocodile's neck. "I don't care."

Crocodile turned, sure that he'd respond this time to Rocinante's additional remark. He didn't.

Once again, a Donquixote left him speechless. What a thought.

He heard Rocinante utter a soft laugh. "Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?"

Crocodile pretended not to notice. "Hmm?"

"There," Rocinante said, bringing a finger dangerously close to Crocodile's face. "I see it. You're thinking about going out?"

Crocodile exhaled, amused by Rocinante's innocence. "Just this once," he said. "I'll agree to end work early and allow you the opportunity to entertain me." He watched Rocinante's grin spread ear to ear. Crocodile pushed him away with his hook. "Who knows, maybe you'll do a good enough job and earn that extra something later on?"

" _Something_?" Rocinante leaned forward. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Crocodile didn't answer, letting his smile remain just a few seconds longer in place of an answer.


	5. Perhaps

When Crocodile read the news of Doflamingo's narrow escape from Mariejois he let out a sigh. It wasn't necessarily a sigh of relief, but a release of air that was built from so much waiting. Anyone passing by his table would assume it was nothing more than a light exhale.

"Doflamingo Escapes Execution at Mariejois." It wasn't some witty title, but the mere mention of the pirate's name and the location was enough to catch anyone's eyes. He stared at the date. It was just like the Donquixote family to show up last minute to get the job done. Crocodile insisted that the feeling starting from his chest and sinking down was just pent up annoyance.

Though he would never admit it, certainly not now, there was a time where he saw something along the lines of potential in Doflamingo. It was the brief and foolish thought of a novice pirate lying on his back, staring up at a snickering young man donning shades and goggles, fingers twisted awkwardly to keep him down. They had both been so young, and for a moment Crocodile even considered possibly employing the oddly dressed teen as a member of his crew. But the fates felt differently on the matter: no sooner did a young Crocodile reflect on an even younger Doflamingo's potentials was he struck with the pointed tip of a shoe, and any hope of the two being more than bitter rivals was gone. Who knows what could have been, but Crocodile wasn't fond of lingering on the past, much less on a man he grew to despise.

The winds were wet with humidity, and the moisture collecting on his forehead brought Crocodile from his reminiscing. He stared at his black tea, now turned lukewarm from the combine result of his neglect and the sudden change in the weather, and decided it was time for him to leave Nanohana's coast before it started to rain. He tossed a few coins on the table, folded the newspaper and used his cup to cover the man's name before leaving the café.

The air was wet, but Crocodile knew there was plenty of time for him to shift into sand and reach his hotel before it rained. For some reason he remained on foot, letting cooler winds ruffle some of the fur from his coat and blow his hair out of place.

Something felt out of place. He insisted whatever uncanny symptoms he felt were a result of several weeks of the Donquixote name filling the papers.

Donquixote Doflamingo was once a World Noble. The pirate who laughed and acted like some god was a descent of a supposed holy people. There was also the startling news that he was in the midst of planning to overthrow a monarchy and take over a country.

Was it all true, or just gossip to create a stir across the globe? Crocodile didn't care enough to guess, but the news left him a little uneasy.

Donquixote Doflamingo, one of the few promising pirates he had the misfortune to come across, was sentenced to several levels of hell. He was supposed to rot in Impel Down, but then the Celestial Dragons learned of his capture. They wanted his head on a pike. Not just the World Nobles, but also the entire world. Suddenly being locked away in a tiny prison cell wasn't good enough.

And now, Donquixote Doflamingo, the man who once pinned Crocodile down and kicked him in the face, just barely escaped a gruesome execution at Mariejois. From out of nowhere his crew appeared and ambushed the navel ship, risking their lives in order to save their precious captain. Though the papers were not entirely accurate on the details, it mentioned something about potential losses. Did a few members of Doflamingo's family lose their lives in the scuffle?

And what about Doflamingo?

Crocodile stopped, pulled out a cigar from his coat and covered the bitter smirk that he mistakenly allowed to appear on his face.

It was the weather. He blamed the weather for making him think so much on a matter that didn't affect him in the slightest. Doflamingo could've been a worthy adversary, but instead he going to spend the rest of his days fleeing the World Government, him and his crew forever wanted by the rest of the world.

If Doflamingo were smart he'd make a point to disappear from history's pages.

The damn weather.

Crocodile was going to light his cigar when he heard a few cries. At first it was nothing, just the normal fear-ridden banter, but then he heard his name being called out. He was ready to ignore it and continue on his way when a few citizens ran up to him, arms waving, eyes wide and frantic.

"There's a boat about to get swallowed by the waves!" someone yelled.

"It's so small, it won't stand a chance!"

Crocodile lifted his head and stared towards the coastline. Through the gaps of tall adobe buildings he was able to spot large waves crashing into the shore. He could also see the developing rain clouds gathering above the warm ocean, growing large and dark, not too far off into the distance.

"Surely the royal guard will have no problem aiding whoever was dumb enough to sail in this weather," he commented, but his answer was less than satisfactory to the locals gathered around him.

"They won't make it in time!" someone whined.

"Please, Sir Crocodile, use your powers and help them!" another annoying voice pleaded to him.

This was the one downside of making up a reputation as growing hero of a country. The people were growing reliant on his very presence to help whenever things turned less than favorable. Crocodile knew he had little choice in the matter. The people wanted a hero, and saving some idiots who dared to venture into waters on a bad day like this one would help spread his name further across the desert country.

He needed a distraction anyways.

With a slight turn he changed to sand, and using the strong winds, was carried over to the harbor. There was a small collection of people gathered at a dock, and a few were pointing towards a vessel being shifted and tossed by the waves. It had the design of a small government owned boat, but lacked the proper sails and flag. Crocodile approached the scene with caution, making sure his step didn't result in the wooden foundation underneath to creak too loudly.

Now Crocodile could detect some moisture in the air. He had about ten minutes before it would rain. Did he want save some idiot marines from being lost to the seas? No, but the amount of stares on him was growing, and it didn't seem the like guards were in a hurry to give their aid to the World Government.

Crocodile sighed through his nose. He wanted to go back to his hotel and have a smoke, maybe distract himself with thoughts of a not too distant future where he ruled over this country. Instead he shifted back into sand and made his way across the ocean.

He could feel the sea's presence underneath him, all around him as he fought to keep himself at a distance from the water's surface. He ignored the strange pull and fought against the growing squalls, his eyes set on the small boat just a couple miles from the shore.

The boat was soaked. Crocodile knew better than to linger in one spot for too long. He spotted the two occupants huddled at the mast, the larger of the two struggling to keep the sail steady. Crocodile looked down at the small child holding on to the leg of his companion, and the turned his attention to the tall, oddly dressed man attempting to keep the boat steady.

"Corazon, look."

The child noticed Crocodile's presence and was tugging at the man's leg. Crocodile remained silent, now distracted by the overabundance of feathers obstructing his view. Cold air blew across the ocean, sending more black feathers flying from the massive coat and Crocodile caught a better glimpse of the young man. The clouds above were threatening rain, there was child screaming for something to happen, but all of Crocodile's attention was focused on the familiar face he was sure he had seen before.

It was Doflamingo, only it wasn't him. The face was rounder, his shoulders broader, the body thinner, lacking the developed muscular form of a fighter, and his hair was a mess. There was hardly any pink on his person, and instead of gaudy shades, this one wore makeup and a red cap.

But the eyes were the same. Old eyes. Experienced eyes.

"Corazon," the boy repeated.

Said man stared cautiously at Crocodile. The boat swayed to one side, and the boy held tightly to his leg. Crocodile pulled his attention from the familiarities, refocusing attention back to his surrounding, which were now spilling over with seawater.

"You," the man said. "You're Sir Croco–"

"Your boat is about to capsize," Crocodile announced. He offered his hand, eyes on the boy clinging to the man's leg. "I suggest you hand the kid over before you lose him to the ocean."

"You're a Shichibukai," was his reply.

"And you and you're child are dead men if you don't make up your mind," Crocodile retorted, already lowering his hand. "I don't know if you're aware, but this country isn't too fond of the World Government's influence. The coast guards are taking their time reaching you…"

The man tensed up and frowned. "I'm not part of the World Government," he muttered.

"Then you should have no problem letting me help you." Crocodile stared at the harbor, at the growing crowd, and then cast his gaze across the ocean. The weather was getting worse, and he didn't have all day to wait on these fools.

He heard a sigh. Crocodile stared at the tall man. "The boy's a fruit user," he began, shaking with worry.

"Corazon," the boy warned, tugging at the man's coat. "Don't…"

"I can trust you wont drop him?" he continued, voice rising up in order to subdue his companion's pleas.

The boy frowned at Crocodile. "Cora…"

Crocodile scoffed, taking a step forward. "I'm offended you had to ask."

The man shrugged before grabbing the boy, lifting him up with both hands. The gusts were rough, and with nothing keeping the small sails from turning, the boat once again swayed to the side. Crocodile braced himself and managed to keep balance. He heard the boy whine. He looked and saw the boy kicking and fighting in the man's arms.

"Corazon, no!" the boy yelled, failing his arms up and down. "I'm not leaving you."

"Law, don't!" The man stumbled back, slipping over wet floorboards as he struggled to avoid potential blows from the child. "Stop struggling," he pleaded.

Crocodile watched the abysmal sight of parent and child fighting, bottom lip twitching and patience rapidly dwindling each time he saw the man clumsily struggle to maintain control. Whatever resemblance to Doflamingo the man once held was gone now. This man was an entirely different breed of idiot. What he lacked in cocky attitude and repulsive behavior he made up for with a pathetic, submissive manner.

And what was the child's problem? Crocodile thought it was fear, from the ocean or being separated. The boy was reaching adolescence, but a heavy storm, coupled with the dread of losing one's family, could bring out the worst. This made sense, but then Crocodile saw the nasty stare cast at him by the child.

He raised a brow, and then sneered. Crocodile reached for the boy's collar, grabbing it when the boy wasn't paying attention. He snapped his head up, staring irately at Crocodile. "Do you want to drown?" Crocodile asked him, sneer twisting into a dry smirk.

The man answered for him. "No!" he yelled, lifting his arms up and once again offering the child to Crocodile. The boat rocked again and he came close to slipping, but saved himself last second. "Take him," he begged. "And, please, don't let anything bad happen to him. Take your time. I'll be fine." Crocodile watched, impassive, as the boy kicked back, trying to hit the man's arms, and the man, wincing, staring at Crocodile with so much optimism it almost made him sick.

The boy looked over his shoulder. "Don't trust him, Rocinante."

The man shook his head. "Law," he pleaded, " _please_."

"Look at him!" He pointed at Crocodile. "He's…he's just like Dofla–!"

The boat swayed again, and this time there was an accompanying wave. Instinctively Crocodile knew what to do: he was to move aside, to shift into sand, to get away. Any of those three options would have sufficed. But he had heard the boy mention _that_ name, and for less than a second his mind paused on it. The rest of the name was left unsaid, because the wave hit the side of the boat, causing water to splash everywhere, but mostly all over the flooring, and the man that looked so much like Doflamingo, already proving that he was unreliable and prone to accidents, slipped forward. It took less than a second for both man and child to make contact with Crocodile; first the boy, who's hands were pushed outward, because he wanted nothing to do with the Shichibukai; and then the man and all his stupid feathers. All three made contact with the drenched floor, and the rest of the remaining second was spent with Crocodile staring up, stupefied, head aching, his body tensing up from the accursed sensation of his clothes soaking up sea water. His vision was blurred and his hearing was muffled: a likely result of his now weakened state, and practically being smothered in the combined weight of man and child. He stared up, at black feathers curled and dripping salty droplets of water on his forehead, reminding him of his one dreaded weakness, and irking and irritating the hell out of him. He felt movement, crushing weight on his chest eased, and child's whining and yelling filling his mind, causing an instantaneous migraine that worsened once he caught sight of the man that had caused this misery.

His head was raised, then the upper portion of his body. The child was in his arms, and both looked rather displeased with this sudden turn of events. Crocodile wished he could be so blissfully ignorant and bask in the same amount of dissatisfaction they were experiencing. As it currently stood, there were no known words to describe what was currently going on in his mind, and how it was exponentially made worse once he and the man; Corazon, Rocinante, whatever he was called, made eye contact with him.

With the makeup smeared and running down his face, Crocodile could easily deduce the familial relations between him and Doflamingo. The cap was missing, and without it Crocodile could see fewer differences between this man and his relative. The jawline, the nose, the ears, and even the lips… Another goddamn Donquixote had entered his life, and just like the last one, this Donquixote had succeeded in pinning him down, rendering him helpless and so impossibly exasperated.

The sounds of alarms from the coast guards' ships signaling they were on their way to rescue all three did nothing to relieve Crocodile from this state.

He wanted to drown.


	6. Dreams

Crocodile entered the room and found Rocinante with the boy, sleeping together on one of the sofas. He didn’t have any planned meetings, and guests were never an issue, but there was always that urgent need to approach the situation and handle it by waking Rocinante up. These days Crocodile would spectate from a safe distance, sure that neither occupant would awake, providing him some peace and quiet.

He took his seat on the couch and lit the cigar he’d been playing with prior to entering the hotel. The rich and heavy fumes began to fill the room, and Crocodile heard someone stir. Was it the child? Crocodile bit down at the end and stopped himself from snickering too loud. The boy was irritating and asked too many questions. He’d only been a pirate for a couple years, but Law was trained well in the arts. Crocodile knew he had Doflamingo to thank for that. God forbid if he’d ever be completely free from the bastard.

He sank further into his seat, crossing his legs and allowing his coat to slip off his shoulders. He heard another sound, this time a soft hum. It wasn’t the boy. Crocodile turned away from the sickly intimate scene, trying instead to turn his attention on the fantastic view of the city. His hotel made up the entire room top floor. If he desired he could look out of the window, or walk out and into the balcony and stare down at the pathetic, gullible fools that made up this country. He listened at the soft humming, possible muttering or sleep talk, and closed his eyes, too distracted by it. There was something about Rocinante’s passivity that gave Crocodile a rise, and it was strong enough for him to not immediately toss Law out the hotel window. Rocinante was a complex character, once a world noble, a marine, and a spy. With the right combination of word and proper amount of coaxing Crocodile knew he would be able to craft a reliable, if not ignorant, subordinate.

He lifted his heavy eyelids. The murmurs were getting to him. Crocodile left his seat and carefully circled the scene. He never got close enough to reach out and touch the man, especially not with the blasted child sleeping on top of him–there were just some things Crocodile would not chance, getting in the brat’s way was one of them–but he was a few steps away, and he could make out just the right amount of detail, as though the scene he was looking upon was some strange, alien work of art.

Rocinante sighed another light hum, and Crocodile’s eyelids were lidded again. His lips pressed around the cigar, and after accepting whatever strange feelings were occurring inside, he left the two on their own.

He’d find entertainment elsewhere.

 

* * *

 

It had been another night of restlessness.

Doflamingo stared at the wooden ceiling, blinking madly, hands too busy grabbing large clumps of sheets to stop the sweat from stinging his eyes. 

The dream began with a memory, or perhaps something his mind made up, but it had felt real to him and it was all that really mattered. He was sitting on his father's lap, small and excited when his mother knelt in front of him, holding someone so small and wrapped in a blanket. He finally earned the trust of his parents to hold his brother. They told him to be gentle.  His mother never left his side, and Doflamingo remembered their smiles as he held on to _little Roci._ He was his baby brother, and Doflamingo remembered how much smaller Rocinante was compared to him, how his soft, curious little fingers grabbed at him. His face was so round and his big brown eyes wouldn't stop looking around at everything, and Doflamingo found it so amazing that anything that caught Roci's eye would cause him to break into a giggle.

That peaceful memory ended with the beginning of another. His brother wasn't a baby anymore, but he was still small and round faced, and he didn't deserve what was coming.  Doflamingo remembered, this one was a memory. Angry villagers were chasing them, and Rocinante simply couldn't keep up. Someone threw a rock and it hit him and Doflamingo didn't see it, but he remembered the horrible sound, the cry for help. He turned around and saw little Roci in the midst of being ambushed. They kicked him repeatedly, and they hit him with sticks, and they laughed and taunted his little brother, and Doflamingo was helpless to do anything. He saw his tiny hands reaching for him, and he heard his cries and screams, until they stopped being cries and screams, and turned into mild whimpers, then nothing at all. Doflamingo was attacked, but the dream, now nightmare, lingered on his brother. Doflamingo held on to Roci, now silent, with blood running out of his nose and ears, not responding to the call of his name. Doflamingo squeezed his hand; in full woe when not even a reflex response was returned. The trek home was long, arduous and frightening.

Would Rocinante wake up from his trauma-induced rest? The dream never answered, but Doflamingo’s memory served him the answer. Rocinante woke up in their mother’s arms, exhausted, hungry, and unaware of the events that took place days prior. He recovered his strength, but there were lingering affects to the severe beating. His hands shook, and his gait was swayed or he’d somehow take too big of a step and he’d fall or trip over the smallest of obstacles. But Doflamingo still had his brother. He was going to lose his mother, and he was growing to hate his father, but he still had his brother.

Doflamingo blinked again. Everything was heavier, drier, and so much harder to bear. The events at Minion Island were reaching their one-year anniversary, but Doflamingo remembered the heartbreaking betrayal as if it had just recently occurred. His brother was a liar. His brother, the second Corazon, pointed a gun at him. Whether he intended to use it was not the case, the very act was an offense that Doflamingo could not get over. His brother stalled, giving an opportunity for Law to escape. Law was gone. Tsuru and her forces arrived. He was captured and sent to Impel Down. He was going to be sent to death by order of the World Nobles.

Doflamingo was tired. His eyelids were heavy and he was detached from the rest of his body. His heart was racing. Light was beginning to break through the curtains. There wasn’t much point in trying to sleep.

He got out of bed and dressed himself. He hurried through his morning rituals. He was tired, but the nightmare had supplied him with enough energy to power through the day. Memories of his brother gave him drive to continue surviving the hardships that were abundant in the Grand Line.

It was still early enough to warrant cautious movement throughout the ship. Doflamingo had a difficult enough time dealing with the crews’ worries over his wellbeing, and the last thing he desired was to face anyone at this hour. These days he hardly wanted to face anyone, even the officers. Of course, shortly after thinking how distracting company would be, Doflamingo opened the door to the kitchen and saw Vergo sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading today’s paper.

Vergo looked up before Doflamingo could turn around and avoid any confrontation. “You’re awake,” he said. He placed the paper on the table and looked to the window, saddened when he saw the dark purple sky. “I was hoping you’d get a few hours more.”

“Hoping will get you far,” Doflamingo replied snidely. He wasn’t angry, but he didn’t feel like sugarcoating his remarks, not even for Vergo.

Vergo cupped his hands around his mug. He was staring at him earnestly, unaffected by the previous remark. “Doffy?”

“What?” he practically snapped. There were days where Doflamingo loved to be around Vergo, and then there were days where he wanted nothing more than seclusion from everyone. This morning was teetering on the latter.

Vergo shunned away, backing into his seat. “I think I discovered something you might find interesting,” he answered. He waited for Doflamingo to relax before picking up the paper and handing it to his captain. Doflamingo snatched the newspaper and brought it to his face. “Go to the third page.”

Doflamingo flipped the few pages and stared at the large picture that took up at least a third of the page. There was Crocodile’s face. Doflamingo wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow, and he bit on the inside of his cheek, _hard_ , till he tasted blood. Yet another article on Crocodile’s charity. Reading about Crocodile’s handiwork in Alabasta was old news. It was clear, at least to him, that Crocodile didn’t want to integrate with Alabastan society and remain a hero. He must have some ulterior motives to his growing popularity. It didn’t really matter anymore. Doflamingo was in no position to compare himself to the scheming pirate. But the article itself wasn’t what caused the seething reaction. It was the image, not of Crocodile, but of the faint, tall figure in the background, standing amongst the crowd, half of him set aflame.

“ _He’s_ in Alabasta,” Doflamingo murmured.

"I wonder for how long?" Vergo asked aloud. 

Rocinante was in Alabasta, assumedly under the protection on their government. Was that right? Or was something else going on? Doflamingo stared at the frozen image of his burning brother, at the reactions of those surrounding him. Everyone but Crocodile looked surprised. Doflamingo knew Crocodile was never one to give satisfying feedback, but he couldn't help but wonder, after all it would be easier to hide from the rest of the world with the help of a famous pirate than it would under the limited power of the government. 

“If what I’m looking is true,” Doflamingo said, folding the paper and placing it on the table, “then we’ve not much time. Crocodile gets bored real fast playing with weaklings.”

“Do you think we should pay the sandbox a visit?” Vergo asked. His shades lowered, and Doflamingo saw the same malicious look that he was no doubt also wearing on his face.

Both men craved revenge.

“No,” Doflamingo answered. “Not now. Not yet.” He saw Vergo’s knuckles glow white as he clenched his cup. “We need to wait,” he added. “We still have the fleet chasing after us. We need to be patient.” He knew Rocinante's day would come. Not now, while he was a world away, safe under Crocodile's influence. But one day. Until then, He would allow Rocinante to live, and he'd do what he did best and plan, biding his time till the opportune moment arrived. 

“Hmm,” Vergo released his grasp from the cup and brought his hands together, intertwining his fingers before resting his chin on top.

“You’re angry,” Doflamingo said. He stood up from his seat and walked over to the other side of the table. “Well, so am I,” he continued, placing a hand on his officer in order to quell some of his inner rage. “But we can’t let that get to us. We’re not kids anymore, and the government is waiting for us to make _another_ error.” He reached into Vergo’s coat pocket and took his box of cigarettes. “But trust me, when the time comes, and it _will_ come,” Doflamingo assured, taking a cigarette and placing it into his mouth, “I’ll remember to let you have first dibs on the torture.”

He lit the cigarette and let it burn for a few seconds, letting the ash consume the end before finally breathing in some of the burning fumes. He waited for Vergo to respond. He didn’t, and Doflamingo went back and took his seat. Light was pushing through the walls and both could tell that the other members of the crew would be awake soon. Doflamingo heard something creak, and when he turned he saw Vergo staring at him. It wasn’t the same cruel look from before, and Doflamingo understood this was Corazon’s way of silently agreeing with him. Vergo was still upset, but Corazon obeyed and would do what he had to in order to please his captain.

The two continued to privately share their thoughts with devious stares. Doflamingo flicked the end of his cigarette. The morning light continued to break though the gaps of the wooden framework, and when the light hit his good eye a thought ran through Doflamingo's mind.

What was his brother dreaming of?


End file.
